Arena
by Runaway Wordette
Summary: How much of herself did Fiora give up for her sisters? How hard did she have to fight for their food? All she needed was her conviction and her lance.


**Well... Not sure where this came from? A bad day? This is basically about how much of herself Fiora had to sacrifice, and how far she had to go for her sisters. It's a little grimy, but I kind of like it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own, and never will own fire emblem.**

**ENJOY**

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The sounds echoed off the tan walls as I pressed myself against the rough stone. The scent of alcohol, sweat, and blood saturated the air, and I took short, quick breaths to try and keep it out of my lungs.

"Shit, the little motherfucker couldn't take some steel-"

The bellowing voice was quickly cut off by the thud of skin against skin, followed by collective, raucous laughter. My face cringed instinctively, but I forced the impulse away after a second. Showing fear and weakness would only make me a target.

I drew my spine up as I usually kept it, and off the wall I'd been hunched against. I adjusted the small tie running along my forehead, and flipped the slightly sweaty turquoise strands of hair out of my eyes. My fingers had become interlocked around my lance in a dead lock grip. The white knuckles stood out with the tendons in my arms. As I slowly relaxed them, the bulging muscle faded back into the surrounding, scarred skin. Simple as that.

Once again, I gave myself the mental pep talk I'd been giving myself for days. I need the money. Florina needs the money. Farina needs the money. _We _need the money. And it was all up to me to get it.

My white boots clacked on the stone as I rounded the corner. The scuffed wooden desk and rickety chairs scattered around the bare room were filled with large men. There were four of them, all with hulking muscles and bristly hair and beards. Their faces were sunburnt and their eyes lit with a cruel excitement. My shoulders almost began to hunch in, but I kept them straight and at the soldier's attention as I'd been taught. I forced my eyes hard and empty and my fingers loose, in a comfortable grip around my steel weapon.

"Hey, this another one of them whores?"

Low snickers broke out as I felt my spine stiffen.

"Naw, she ain't in one of those fancy frilly things."

My mind flashed to the gaunt and haunted faces of the young dancers roaming the streets of the large city. Their blistered feet and grimy outfits flitted through the memory and it made me all the more grateful for my patchwork soldier uniform and calloused hands.

"I'm here to sign up."

Howling laughter came from their yellowed mouths and my eyes narrowed.

"Lookee here, princess. Just cause you got a shiny lance in those tiny fingers of yours doesn't mean a thing. Get back to the streets where you belong."

My lips tightened into a line and my stance became more tense.

"I am here to sign up, you scumbag. I'm a registered soldier, more than you lot of thugs can say."

The men's faces grew dark as and one shoved his chair back with a bang and began to stomp forward.

"Lemme teach this bitch a lesson."

His echoing stomps grew nearer, and my stance crouched into instinct. He swung a massive fist for the side of my face, and I ducked underneath it. He stumbled forward with the momentum, and I crouched down, butting him in the chest with my shoulder. He fell back with a loud "oomph" and thudded to the crusty, stone floor. I raised the butt of my lance and jammed it into his torso. The crunching vibrated through my lance along with his cry of pain. The sound made me sick, but my mind drifted back…

Florina and Farina's tiny, hollow faces and bony bodies. The way their innocent eyes stared up from dirty faces. 'I'm hungry, Fiora…. I'm hungry…'

I swallowed back sour bile, and forced my face empty. I raised the lance butt again and brought it down on the yielding skin.

A loud, pained groan came from the man's bloody lips, and I took a step back and tried not to sway on my feet.

It was different, when there was choking smoke, sulfur, and flames. When there was pumping, screaming blood in your veins, and people around you were getting picked off by horrifying chance. There was no time for calculation when you shoved the pointed, gleaming tip of your lance through the crunching, squelching skin. There was no thinking involved in war.

I felt light headed as I watched the man clutch at his stomach as he tried to sit up. Blood was crusting the scraggly bristles of his beard and his cow-like brown eyes were vacant, as if his mind had long since gone to the land of pain.

In battle, I never had to look at their faces. I never had to watch the blood come out, or hear the screams and groans. I didn't have to hear anything but my orders.

"Damn, this bitch is for real."

I looked up from the suffering man to the remaining men. Their crude and simple eyes now held a sense of respect. For some reason, that respect in the dull eyes made me sick.

"What's yer name, sweetheart? We'll getcha all signed up."

They sat back in their rickety chairs without a glance at their feebly moaning comrade who lay in the bloody dust.

"Fiora."

My voice was empty, and cold. It terrified me. How much more of this, how many more days of this till I was empty? How long till I couldn't tell who looked back at me from a reflection?

His stubby hand reached out with a grimy piece of paper that looked as if it had been scribbled on.

"Yer gonna be fighting next hour. We'll come out and cheer for ya, right boys?"

There was more collective and guttural laughter shared among them, and it was all I could do to turn and walk through the stone archway that lead to the arena.


End file.
